


Fly to Me

by ClingingOntoAir



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (1984 TV), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Character Study, M/M, No Plot, Some angst, retirement!Holmes, sort of epistolary, unwieldy sentences ahead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-13
Updated: 2014-11-13
Packaged: 2018-02-25 05:03:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2609540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClingingOntoAir/pseuds/ClingingOntoAir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-WWI, songfic. Holmes writes a letter to Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fly to Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is based off of the beautiful song "Fly to Me" by Keane, which can be found with lyrics [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JAODjL8g0oM) or acoustic live [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oY7-QvOkNZs). Song lyrics are in italics.

_Don't turn your back on me_

_Conceal and protect me_

_I need you to stop me_

_From reeling around_

I need you, John Watson. It is only now, after nearly forty years, my retirement from detective work, and my move to Sussex that I can finally admit that out loud. I have always needed you.

Oh, I gave up the cocaine for you years ago, but that hasn’t quelled my black moods any. You are my sounding board, my conductor of light. My Boswell. Without you, I am nothing—those at Scotland Yard would have refused to come to me with even the most arduous of cases if you had not been there to temper my presence. I fully admit that I am difficult to work with on the best of days. Somehow, you managed it.

As much as I once claimed it to be so, my occupation is not all that I am. After all, I have all but given it up, and I have not yet experienced an existential crisis such as I did whilst clinging to a slippery rock face in the back end of Switzerland. I have my bees to keep me company now. Their constant buzzing reminds me of London of old, but I cannot forget your absence even for a moment.

_The time's gonna come_

_When you no longer need me_

_But stay by my side 'til the sun has gone down_

You don’t need me. You enjoy my company, of course, and value our intimate friendship, but you did just fine when I was gone for three years—not well, but fine. What I experienced, on the other hand, cannot be called living by any stretch of the imagination.

So now, as then. I find myself in my own armchair in my own room, and only wish that I could see my old friend Watson in the other chair which he has (not so often, of late) adorned.

You took a bullet for me, over a decade ago. There were numerous other injuries accrued over the course of our career as a detective agency (and yes, ours—it was as much yours as mine). Stab wounds, general scrapes, beatings, and near-fatal poisoning on several occasions might have brought us closer to death than that point, but the Garrideb affair is the one which you chose to write down—to set in stone the plain fact of the detective’s care for his doctor. A care which, I might add, has not diminished in the slightest throughout the intervening years.

_When I am an old man_

_And live by the sea_

_Will all your thoughts fly to me?_

You thought that I would never leave Baker Street. In your stories, Sherlock Holmes is so entwined with London, it seems as if he will be there forever. Well.

It is not my London any longer. That is why I moved out here in the first place—I felt adrift on once-familiar streets, swept away by the bustle of a city tide I no longer exercised any control over. The feeling, I assure you, is enough to make any man want to escape it all, though I suspect you already know that. You cannot be doing well on that front, either, after the war.

Did you know, some of my old Irregulars enlisted, in part, because of an admiration of you? They saw all your best qualities, as I did. Little (I suppose he is not little, anymore) James came out of it with a leg wound very similar to yours, but young Wiggins made it out miraculously unscathed. He is now married with a son and daughter of his own, I believe.

How does it feel, to know that while the mechanics of war have transformed unimaginably quickly in the last half century, the outcome remains much the same? I tell you these things not to create a feeling of guilt in you, but in the hope that you will understand what drove me out here. You served above and beyond long ago, my dearest friend, and therefore should not feel any responsibility whatsoever for the Great War, but I know my Watson, and I know you will anyway.

Such staggering loss of life is not bearable for either of us; so, I tried to get away from it all. I tell you, I tried. However much I attempt to distract myself, not a day goes by when I don’t think of what I left behind. Not an hour goes by when I don’t think of what we could have been. Not a minute goes by when I don’t think of you. I know I am being as much of an unabashed, insufferably romantic fool as I once chided you for—oh, do I know. I can, at this point in my life, be honest about matters of the heart, at least on paper. I miss you, John Watson, with all of my oft-shuttered soul.

_As much as I want you_

_I can't hold on to you_

_When will you return to your old home again?_

I have no claim on you. I know that, I swear I do, but I cannot keep myself from the irrational desire to have you by my side once more. It matters not that we are far from the city of our youth; we can, and shall, make a home together wherever we are, by the sheer strength of the fondness between us.

Mary is long gone, just like the gas lamps and hansom cabs of our youth. You have managed to maintain a steady practice through the years, though I confess it is somewhat surprising that you have any remaining patients after I continued to drag you across the country on cases every other week. I know you are exhausted. The most recent influenza outbreak, on top of the war and everything else, has surely taken its toll on you—yet you continue on. Your dedication is admirable, but you simply must take a break. I fear you will really overstrain yourself one of these days, and then where would I be? At least now I can content myself with knowing you are only a day’s travel away, even if I hardly ever take advantage of the fact. I don’t want to burden you further, I suppose. And you have not contacted me, either. Perhaps you are content, in the same way, merely knowing I still breathe out here.

Perhaps you should take a wife, if it suits you. Someone who would constantly be around to support you, to make sure you don’t work yourself to an early grave. Someone who would be present in both mind and body, as I freely admit I was not when I succumbed to drugs and melancholia.

Above all, my dear man, you should be happy.

_May love lie around you_

_Good fortunes surround you_

_You know where to turn to_

_When you need a friend_

I will always be here for you. If ever you should feel alone, know that I am here. If you suddenly develop a dire need to understand the inner workings of bee colonies, I am your man. If ever you need anything at all, do not hesitate to contact me. I know that our correspondence has been sparse of late, but that was not my choice. And if you should find that you are quite content where you are, just know that I wish you well in all you do, John Watson.

_When I am an old man_

_And live by the sea_

_Will all your thoughts fly to me?_

It will never be the same, and yet.

I have made Sussex my home, just as Baker Street was. Only one crucial element is missing, the catalyst for all the rest, and that is you. I know I said I would be happy for you, whatever you choose—just take this as the scattered ramblings of a foolish, selfish, sentimental old man. It seems that the filing system in my brain-attic is just as cluttered as that of our attic lumber-room, ha! I remember the constant insistence of yourself and Mrs. Hudson to at least make my belongings appear presentable, but I maintain that there is a method to my madness. I am a scientist, after all. Perhaps, one day, the science of deduction will be fully accepted by those who deal with criminal justice. If it is so, then it will be in no small part due to your stories, my dear fellow.

Those stories are not as abrasive to me as they once were. Indeed, I find myself of many an evening occupied with some “Adventure” or another, if only to reassure myself that you felt the same connection between us. Or at least, you once did. I cannot quite remember, anymore...

I struggle to recall basic facts, on occasion. I can recite the periodic table, but I need you and your writing to remind me just how many steps there were up to our rooms.

I do not believe I will send this. I have utterly failed at writing what I intended when sitting down here. I meant to put down a fond remembrance, a reassurance, an encouragement. I did not mean to present to you so starkly the simple fact that I have aged. Aged, like the man in the stories never could and never will. And I miss you, still. Still, you have not sent word.

Ah, well. I am definitely not going to send this. I will, for the sake of my own mind, attempt to sum up what the past few pages could not, and then perhaps I will see to my bees.

_When I'm far away from the places we've known_

_Will all your love bring me home?_

 

John Watson, I love you. Please come home.

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this sitting around for way too long and finally decided to just publish it. There's also a small reference to another Keane song called "Watch How You Go".
> 
> My writing style is pretty comma-heavy, but I think it's how Holmes would talk, especially if he couldn't find the right words. I didn't pick a specific year for this fic because I'm not as familiar with the later stories and Watson's (read: Doyle's) dates were all over the place anyway. It's not universe-specific, but I did picture Jeremy Brett and David Burke while writing it.


End file.
